9 Tales of Space and Time Read online

  Captain Wainwright nodded. “It’s Gay. She’s feeling awful. Her whole life seems to have come apart at the seams. Blackie prescribed a sedative, and she counterprescribed full consciousness so she could—‘clean her dirty mind’, to use her phrase.

  “She’s decided psychology and sociology are blind and stupid and a few other things.

  “The poor girl’s having a hell of a time.”

  Bowman sighed. “I don’t suppose she’d want to see me at all, now.”

  Wainwright shook his head. “Wrong. She does. She wants to apologize. Better go see her, Bull; God knows you’ve had a morning already, but we’ll all appreciate it.”

  “Sure, Hal. I’ll try to help—it’s a business with us politicians.”

  J. FRANCIS McCOMAS

  2

  SHOCK TREATMENT

  J. Francis McComas was co-editor with the writer of Adventures in Time and Space, one of the very first science-fiction anthologies, and one which remains a keystone volume for collectors’ libraries. With Anthony Boucher he edits The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and also with Boucher, he edited Mercury’s True Crime Detective Magazine. His science-fiction criticism is seen often in the columns of the New York Times.

  McComas has always been interested in the causes and punishment of crime and has fought for enlightened penology. He has lectured to the inmates of San Quentin Prison, incidentally . . . on science fiction. He is the author of a widely discussed article which detailed the history of capital punishment in the United States, the data for which was supplied by penologists from many states. McComas is in agreement with such leading penologists as Duffy, Lawes, and Teeters who hold that capital punishment is not only morally wrong but useless as a crime preventive.

  In “Shock Treatment” we are proud to present his first fiction to be written or published in over ten years. Based upon the humane philosophy reflected in the article referred to above, McComas has conceived a brave, struggling—and frightened—new world, a world rising slowly from the shattered remnants of a giant space ship which has crashed on a small, Earth-type planet in an unknown system. The problem of the story, and of Brandt Cardozo, the penologist of the survivors, is what to do with the ruthless murderer discovered in their midst.

  In this challenging story McComas gives science fiction a new subject for extrapolation . . . penology!

  2

  SHOCK TREATMENT

  THE LAST WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION FINISHED HIS statement, rose from the witness chair, and walked back to the first row of the spectator section. His footsteps on the rough floor boards were loud in the quiet room. Hugo Blair, Citizens’ Counsel, glanced down at his papers, looked briefly at the defense table, then turned to the bench.

  “That closes the Citizens’ case,” he rasped. “I think we have proven beyond any doubt that the defendant, David Tasker, entered the combination store and living quarters of our pharmacist, Leon Jacoby, with intent to steal Jacoby’s stock of the drug, dakarine. Jacoby discovered him, tried to reason with the thief, but Tasker stabbed Jacoby several times with a knife. Jacoby was killed instantly. Tasker then broke open a jar of dakarine, took most of the jar’s contents, and, we presume, returned to his quarters. He was found there the following morning, wallowing in a dakarine-induced stupor, the blood-stained knife on his person. This horrible crime has removed from the community its only qualified pharmacist. It has—”

  “Have you any more witnesses, Counselor?” Judge Anthony Hrdlicka asked sharply.

  “No, sir, I have not—”

  “You will stand down then, Counselor. I must remind you that the law says Counsel is instructed to present evidence, not comment on it.” There was a brief pause, then Blair nodded jerkily and sat down at his table. “You’ve done very well in our first case, Mr. Blair,” Hrdlicka continued easily. “Very well, indeed. Um. I hope your conduct will serve as a model for all future Citizens’ Counsels.”

  Blair’s narrow shoulders were hunched and he stared down at his table, unmindful of the jury’s vigorous nods of approval.

  “Now,” said Hrdlicka, “we’ll hear from the defense. Counselor Giovannetti?”

  Lisa Giovannetti arose. She still wore the skirt of her flight lieutenant’s uniform but her primly cut blouse was made of recently milled new-world cloth, that dull produce of the plant popularly called the “cotton weed.”

  “I am faced with a severe problem . . .”

  Her voice was almost inaudible.

  “You’ll have to speak louder, my dear,” Hrdlicka said. “Remember, we’re all new to this, so there’s nothing for you to be embarrassed about.”

  “I’m sorry . . . I was saying that I have a problem. My—ah—my client has refused to give me any cooperation whatsoever. He just won’t talk to me. And I have no witnesses, of course. Frankly, since the defendant won’t take the stand—you know he has refused to plead one way or the other . . .” She paused, looked helplessly at the judge, then at Blair.

  Dr. Pierre Malory leaned closer to Brandt Cardozo and said softly, “That’s the drug, you know.” Cardozo nodded, frowning. “Shouldn’t really be on trial yet,” he muttered.

  “Um.” Hrdlicka scowled at the defendant. “Refuses to say anything, eh? That does put you in a spot, Miss Giovannetti. Any ideas on the problem?”

  “I—under other conditions—back home, that is . . . I suppose I would just throw my client on the mercy of the court. That’s the correct phrase? But here—well, we have decided to do things differently. I’m glad . . . I think I will be right to leave everything up to the court—the way the court will operate according to our new penal code . . .”

  “Uh. You’re just a little confused, Counselor, but I think I get your meaning. Yes . . .”

  “I’m afraid I’m not a very eloquent counsel, Your Honor.”

  “But a wise one, my dear. Ahem!” Hrdlicka glared at the spectators. “I would remind all present that we are engaged in a very serious business! Um. Since our code makes provision for just such cases, we will accept the fact that Counselor Giovannetti offers no formal defense. Well.” The old man leaned back in his chair and pushed his glasses up on his bald forehead. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, respected counsel, our penal code has left certain matters to our own discretion. After all, a committee of seven laymen—one steward and six passengers of a space liner—none of them skilled in legal problems, could hardly be expected to foresee every contingency. So it’s up to us to establish precedent. Um. Now, our law says every criminal trial must be guided—and in a large sense, resolved—by the analyses of the accused by two officials of the court: the court psychiatrist and the state penologist.” He gestured at Brandt Cardozo and Dr. Malory.

  “Both of these officials are present, of course. And this court is bound by their recommendations. But it isn’t clear just when they should offer such recommendations. Now, it seems logical to me that any such, ah, intimate discussions are not in order if an accused person is judged not guilty. Um. That’s the way I see it. How about you, Mr. Blair?”

  “I certainly do not believe theoretical evidence should be allowed to affect a verdict.”

  “Miss Giovannetti?”

  “Isn’t the psychiatric evidence intended to guide the sentence, Your Honor? Not the verdict?”

  “Right. How about the experts themselves? What do you think, gentlemen?”

  Cardozo and Malory glanced at each other and Malory nodded.

  “I think Miss Giovannetti has exactly defined our position, sir,” said Cardozo. “So we think the order you suggest is the proper one:”

  “Good.” Hrdlicka scratched his nose. Brandt Cardozo was sure the old boy wanted a cigar very badly. “Well. According to USN law, this would be the time for the judge to charge the jury. But this community, marooned on an unknown planet as we are, cannot consider itself one of the United Solar Nations. We have cut out the closing speeches by prosecution and defense attorneys so our judicial procedures won’t be cluttered up wi
th tear-jerking ran tings about the grand old Solarian flag or the prisoner’s dear old mother.” The jury chuckled at this. “Further, we have expressly limited the scope of the judge’s charge, so no jury will ever be improperly influenced by one man’s opinions or —what’s more likely—the state of one man’s ulcers on one particular day.” This time the jury laughed openly. “Or even by one man’s attempts at humor,” Hrdlicka blandly went on. “Now, much as I’d like to, I can’t set any precedent on these lines, for the evidence presents no problems whatsoever. You’ve heard the testimony of your friends and neighbors, you’ve listened to the men you yourselves have made your protectors, your police. You’ve heard the Citizens’ Defender say her client has refused to help her set up any kind of defense. Um. So, you’ll leave the courtroom now and go and think about all that and reach your verdict. I know you’ll do your duty. That’s all I have to say.”

  The jury filed out the small side door, stood around in the afternoon sunshine and had a collective cigarette, filed in, and their foreman solemnly announced that they unanimously found David Tasker guilty of the robbery and murder of Leon Jacoby.

  Brandt Cardozo had heard many juries deliver that awful verdict in the courtrooms of several planets. He had never seen anything like this. Now, in this bare room of raw boards that was designed as a Council Hall first and a courtroom second, there wasn’t that long sigh shuddering over the audience as all concerned suddenly knew the tension was eased at last and the struggle for a man’s life had ended in defeat.

  There had been no tension. Eager curiosity, of course, for the spectators felt it was just as much their concern as the judge’s, say, to discover how their brand-new laws would work. But there had been nothing to assail their nerves and their emotions, because nothing so tangible as death had been in the offing. Tasker’s life or death had never been debated.

  Brandt Cardozo glanced over at Tasker. The defendant leered at the jury. Open resentment of his contempt showed on the faces of some.

  Hrdlicka muttered a “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” rustled some papers, cleared his throat, and said, “Um. Well, we’re on our own now. Lot of us had some experience with law—know I have with one kind of corporation code or another—so, up to now, we’ve known what to expect. But now . . . well, when we finally decided we were stuck on this world and had to make our own way, we decided we’d try some new ways of doing things. We’re actually going to use one of those new methods right now. And while I’m not a particularly religious man, I say, ‘God be with us.’ ” He looked musingly down at Tasker. The prisoner twiddled his thumbs. “The jury’s decided the prisoner’s guilty of murder. Only possible verdict, of course. Now, we’re going to use our best brains to decide what to do with him . . . all right, I call on Dr. Pierre Malory.”

  “Well,” breathed Malory, “here we go.”

  He walked over quickly and seated himself in the witness chair.

  “Now, Doctor,” Hrdlicka said, “I feel you should give your material as testimony. That is, subject to question from bench, counsel, or jury. I said, subject to question. Not challenge. Not debate.” He flicked a sidelong glance at Hugo Blair. “No cross-examination. Only time we’ll bother you is when you’re usin’ technical terms the rest of us don’t follow. Now. Let’s have your background. For the record.”

  “Yes, sir,” Malory’s voice was quietly purposeful. “I am Pierre Malory, Doctor of Medicine. I was a passenger on the S. & G. liner, the Tonia, when it crashed on this planet. Since I was the only medical man among the survivors, I have served as the community’s physician. Six months ago, we adopted a penal code to take care of problems of law and order. That code called for the services of a psychiatrist and, since we had no better trained man, I was elected to the job.”

  “We’ve been lucky to have you, Doctor. Now, you have examined the prisoner, David Tasker?”

  “I have.”

  “For how long?”

  “Since the day of his arrest, six days ago.”

  “Know anything about him before that?”

  “Not on the ship. He was, I believe, a member of the engine maintenance crew and I, as a passenger, would not come in contact with him. In the year we have been here in the New World, I have had little time to take any note of him. I did treat him once.”

  “What for, Doctor?”

  “Facial contusions. I believe he had been in a fight.”

  “I see. Well, now, suppose you give us the result of your official observations.”

  Pierre Malory stretched out his long legs, crossed them, moved his body sideways in his chair.

  “It’s going to be a difficult job, sir. For three reasons.”

  “Go ahead. Let’s have them.”

  “First. I am definitely not what I hope my successors will be: a fully qualified specialist in mental disease. You all know I’m just a general practitioner. Second. I haven’t had the time or the equipment to make any sort of analysis of the emotions, personality, attitudes of David Tasker. Lord! even if I had all the instruments I could possibly want, plus a complete staff of trained personnel, I couldn’t begin an analysis in six days! And thirdly, the prisoner is obviously under the influence of the drug, dakarine.”

  “Well, Doctor, as to your first two reasons,” said Hrdlicka, “we all know how little equipment was salvaged. And we all know how many lives you’ve saved with it in the past year. We’re not worried about your qualifications; this court will take what you say as gospel! There’ll be no argument, believe me. But maybe you’d better tell us about this dakarine.”

  “Dakarine is, briefly, an alkaloid derived from the dakar plant which was discovered on Centauri III. That plant is now grown under government supervision on all Earth-type planets. When used in minute quantities, dakarine has produced marvelous results in the treatment of all types of psychic shock. That is, if it is administered to a patient suffering anything from excessive grief to extreme catatonia, the patient’s interest in the world about him is almost immediately restored to normal.

  “However, the drug—like so many—has its dangers. It is habitforming. It produces in its addicts a cheerful conviction that everything the addict wants to do is quite all right. Nothing the addict attempts will ever go wrong—is wrong.” Malory straightened in his chair, leaned forward. “The prisoner Tasker is obviously still under the influence of the drug. His lack of interest in his predicament is full proof of that. And I don’t know how long the effects of the dose he took will last, for the effect of a given quantity of the drug varies with the individual. And I don’t know how much dakarine Tasker took or what his personal reaction to it is. I do know that Tasker, being full of dakarine, is a man incapable of any sort of cooperation with a psychiatrist.”

  Tasker sat impassive under the concerted gaze of the entire room.

  “Just how do you mean?” asked Hrdlicka.

  “To appraise the mind, we first evaluate the body. Tasker’s in wretched physical condition. But his symptoms can be nothing more than those of prolonged use of dakarine. They probably are.

  “Now, as to his mind. Naturally, he refused to give me any response to tests. I think I’ve managed to make a pretty fair guess at his IQ—it’s average. About eighty-one Andrews, I should say. Perhaps point eleven Herwig-Dollheim, but that’s just a guess. Right now, his personality is, must be, wholly false. He’s absolutely optimistic, crudely merry—to him everything’s a joke, an obscene joke; he’s completely selfrighteous. He has no approach to problems because for David Tasker there are no problems.”

  “It seems to me,” Blair said coldly, “you don’t give us much to go on.”

  “That is correct, Counselor. I haven’t much to go on myself.” The jury glanced uneasily at each other. Hugo Blair tapped his table with a pen.

  “Well, Doctor,” Hrdlicka said, “what shall we do about it?”

  “I don’t think we can do anything until Tasker is completely free from the influence of the drug.”

  Blair j
umped to his feet.

  “I foil to see your reasoning,” he snapped.

  Malory was puzzled.

  “I don’t follow you,” he said.

  “I submit that, since Tasker was not under the influence of any drug when he committed the crime of murder, we have no right to take this business of drug addiction into our present consideration!”

  Hrdlicka rapped his desk with his gavel.

  “That’s ridiculous, Counselor! The law calls for a thorough analysis of the accused; and even a layman like me can see that no analysis is possible if the accused is under the influence of any drug that affects his faculties. And I would like to point out to the entire court that the problem of murder has been settled. We’re not concerned with that now, we’re concerned with the problem of Tasker. Um. Dr. Malory, I’ll take your suggestion for delay under advisement, unless you want me to act on it now?”

  Malory hesitated, glanced quickly at Brandt Cardozo. Cardozo looked at Blair, still on his feet, and his mind raced. After a moment he made his decision. Settle it now, he said to himself, and shook his head very slightly.

  “I rather think, Your Honor,” Malory then said, “that you might hear Mr. Cardozo and then make your decision.”

  “Very well. Mr. Blair, I see you are still on your feet. Do you wish to address the court?”

  “I wish to state that I, both as a citizen of this community and as an officer of this court, consider Dr. Malory’s attempts at diagnosis wholly inadequate for the purposes of this trial!”

  Hrdlicka opened his mouth, but Malory raised a hand.

  “They are inadequate, sir,” he said to Blair. His tone was gentle. “Perhaps I should give you my own feeling toward this man. My feeling—the feeling of a man who has practiced medicine for over twenty years—is that David Tasker is essentially a very unhappy person. He’s inferior; all drug addicts feel inferior. He’s frightened; all belligerent persons are frightened. I hope someday to learn why he’s unhappy . . . frightened . . . belligerent. I hope to learn that for my good, for your good, as well as for Tasker’s good.”